


Almost Like Being in Love

by rispacooper



Series: The Slutty Boys 'Verse [9]
Category: Psych
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At last! An ending! Understanding and communication and, of course, sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Judy Garland joke is from a story written in this universe by senor_coconut_1 though that story was never posted. The diphallia reference, that’s all imre_nico. Real Genius is a brilliant movie, and for one more in-joke, Kittie, I’m going to have my wicked way with *you* someday.
> 
> Gus singing Judy is possibly the happiest make my day image ever.

There’s a pleasant rhythm in the sounds of a police station, the sweep of paperwork, the quiet creak of the rookies’ new shoes, the constant, muffled noise from downstairs as criminals and their accomplices were brought in for questioning or booking. It’s a melody as familiar to Carlton as the smell of the station—floor cleaner in the mornings, stale coffee by late afternoon, sweat and—in the old days—a ton of aftershave by the evening. On a good day, Carlton would rather listen to the station than any other music.

Today is no exception. But when Carlton bobs his head to the symphony of police work, he catches O’Hara shooting him a curious look.

He frowns anyway, because it’s the third look of hers so far today, and considering that she had shown up ten minutes late this morning, her suit slightly askew, he ought to be giving her the eye.

Though a sick O’Hara wouldn’t be watching him so closely. Which leaves the idea that his partner wants to _talk_. About what he has no idea, or interest, but persistence is possibly the best and worst thing about Detective O’Hara, making her both a good cop and an annoying partner. When he grunts and stares back down at the files open on his desk, she lets her gaze linger for a minute or two before giving a sigh way too loud to be real and drops her head too.

Not that either of them are staring at anything that’s going to help them. They’ve had John “Sherlock” Sigerson’s files for over a week and everything in it has lead to a dead end. His known associates were still locked up, he hasn’t checked in with his P.O., and his ex-girlfriend—now a stripper—hates him so much that if she had seen him, she probably would have killed him herself.

Samantha had more that more than clear. She was out to protect herself and her son, and considering her fierce expression and those strange piercings and tattoos of hers, she would probably do it.

She’s also looked oddly familiar, but she hadn’t reacted to meeting him, so Carlton could only assume he must have seen her working during his last…visit…to that strip club downtown. That all he could remember about that was the taste of scotch in his mouth and the heated, small space of a bathroom stall was probably the reason he didn’t know her face.

The sounds of the station fade into the background again at that, and Carlton clears his throat, making sure the file occupies his attention. There’s heavy traffic around him, stomping feet of the street cops sounding a lot like the bass of that club, the beat of another heart next to his.

Carlton reaches up, automatically smoothing out his hair though he knows nothing—and no one—has disturbed it today.

He scowls and puts his hand back on the desk. He taps the papers, mug shots, rap sheet, notes from prison officials to the parole board, and the lab report on the stray hair left at the last crime scene.

He hopes Officer Denton enjoys his new job as a crossing guard.

Carlton taps the sheets of paper again, running his fingers up and down to the sound of McNab shaking the sugar packets for his coffee. Sigerson had never belonged to any known gangs, so the tattoos covering his body aren’t going to be much of a help, and he doubts any con clever enough to be known as Sherlock would get clues inked permantly on himself anyway.

There’s something missing just the same. Guys like this don’t just change the habits of a lifetime. Nobody does that.

Just look at… Carlton shuts down that train of thought right there and shifts in his seat. His phone is on the desk next to him. It’s the only silent thing in the whole damn station.

Maybe he needs more coffee. It’s probably going to be a long night, with the Chief on their asses if they don’t get any leads on this guy.

He hadn’t had time for coffee at home that morning, had forgotten to set his alarm the night before. The sun through his bedroom window had prodded him into opening his eyes, and from then until now Carlton had been rushing around, scrambling to get here on time— _just_ on time—and still straightening his tie as he’d walked through the door.

His hand runs down the length of fabric at the thought. It’s the first one he grabbed; one of his more expensive ones, one Victoria had given him a long time ago to wear to some party, so silky to the touch that he lets it slide through his fingers.

“So you had a nice time last night too?” O’Hara’s question is polite. There’s no reason why hearing it would make Carlton jerk back in his seat and drop his hand. No reason except the vivid memory of just how he had spent his night and a certain person screaming out, “Do me, Carlton!” at the top of his lungs.

Carlton lifts his eyebrows even with the skin of his face and neck getting warm.

“What was that, O’Hara?” he manages to keep his voice smooth and meet her gaze. That isn’t as easy as it sounds; O’Hara is close to bouncing in her swivel chair. The knowing sparkle he’d been expecting to see is there in her eyes but she’s got her mouth set in a serious line.

“You were humming,” she informs him as her smile returns, then lifts her eyebrows significantly. “Again.”

Carlton opens his mouth to deny it to shuts it, licking at lips that are buzzing, as though he _has_ been humming, or kissing someone with a wicked mouth and a serious need to shave more than once a day.

With things between them quiet for a few moments, and the day so slow, Carlton can catch up with the station’s rhythm at last. He’s startled into speaking again at the languid motions around him, the gentle glide of people in their routines, even the beep of the fax machine. He’d never really noticed or considered how much the sounds of the station are like slow-dancing, make-out music from the 1970’s.

“No I wasn’t.” His face is getting warmer, shifting from pink to red, he knows it, and actually considers cursing his Irish heritage. With his face burning, his collar feels tight, and Carlton knows he’s giving something away but has to reach up to tug at it. Of course it doesn’t go anywhere, not with his tie on, but when his fingertips find the knot to loosen it, the hint of silk makes his mouth go dry.

Instantly his mind is full of too many images. Things done, things only suggested. There’d been too much happening to focus before, but now he can, and the flash of revelation makes him open his eyes wide, spreads the heat from his face to his shoulders, then down even further.

He’s already sitting, but Carlton pushes himself further into his chair, behind his desk, trying to keep at least that much hidden while his brain spins out of control, counting each and every time hands had grabbed his ties, pulled them, twined them around wrists and slid them between fingers.

Right in front of him, and it was been like he’d already been blindfolded, another image to make him squirm in his seat. He could do that, he could have the satisfaction of finally, totally shutting that smartass mouth with one little strip of cloth, or better, he could wrap that cloth tight around the bedposts and leave him desperate and flailing, as helpless as Carlton sometimes felt whenever a certain psychic showed up to be a genius.

He’d like that, had practically been begging for it with every pat to his chest, daring Carlton to do it with each quick, all-encompassing glance at his suits. Carlton could have tried it before, could have been doing that this whole time.

“I had a good night too,” O’Hara comments, forcing Carlton to remember her presence, the fact that he’s still at work. He narrows his eyes, but sometime during his dark, inappropriate, completely hot bondage fantasy O’Hara had lowered her gaze to her desk and started fiddling with the pens in her desk caddy.

She fiddles with them again when Carlton doesn’t say anything right away, though she looks up when he clears his throat. His face is red and his suit is too tight. There’s a small patch of raw skin at his shoulder from too much contact with stubble and a definite ache in his lower back. He barely got any sleep and _knows_ he hasn’t had enough coffee. And now O’Hara wants to talk.

More than talk, she wants to confide. For some unknown and unfathomable reason, she wants to have Girl Talk.

Carlton fixes a sneer on his face, then sees her bright eyes staring at him with all the hope of a kitten looking for a warm place to curl up.

He pushes out a long sigh and feels his shoulders slump. O’Hara, much like someone else he knows, takes that as a sign to go on.

“So…” she begins immediately, leaning forward and put her hands in her lap. “Shawn let me use his reservation for _Ciao’s_ last night. He said he wasn’t going to need it after all…”

Carlton bolts back up into picture perfect posture, scowling as hard as he can though he knows it’s too late and no good; for whatever reason, O’Hara stopped being intimidated by him a long time ago.

She goes silent, narrowing her eyes to study him. It’s a damn good cop face, he has to admit. But he doesn’t shift, doesn’t move a goddamn muscle. He doesn’t do anything but scowl back. He doesn’t care what people say about his face being expressive, what they breathe into his neck as he’s trying to sleep, or look so damn pleased about after shoving that first piece of fruit into his mouth. Carlton keeps his expression smooth, doesn’t so much as blink until McNab burns his fingers on coffee that he knows is hot but touches anyway to check the temperature.

McNab’s shocked gasp—his steaming coffee is actually _hot_ —makes Carlton glance away and by the time he looks back O’Hara is sitting smugly back in her seat, idly twirling a pen on the desk.

Carlton’s jaw tightens at her short, stifled giggle.

He’s fully aware that it’s laughable, Shawn Spencer wanting _him_. That he wants Shawn Spencer in return is immaterial; Spencer is young and charming and some kind of genius. Carlton is older and married—almost divorced hardly counts—and not exactly one of Santa Barbara’s hottest bachelors. Whatever’s between them, it can’t last. Spencer will get tired of him; Carlton had known that going in, but there’s no reason for O’Hara to stick her pert nose into it and mock him.

“You’re not going to hurt him, are you?” she wonders before Carlton can think of a threat frightening enough to make her be quiet. She lets go of the pen, and Carlton watches it fall onto her desk before he stares back at her.

She grins again at his confusion, the line he can feel forming right between his eyes. Perfect shot, he thinks vaguely, refusing to be impressed, then swallows at the new noise breaking into the pattern of his station on a not very busy Tuesday.

It’s not jarring, nothing like cymbals crashing, which it ought to be, when he thinks about it. Nothing like a Muppet gone amok on the drums. It’s a series of sounds that rise above the usual noise level of the station, just enough to attract attention before they drop back down again. They’d blend in, except for the part where Carlton knows he’s straining to hear more, pushing forward until he can hear every word, even before he lays eyes on Spencer and Guster.

They’re bickering, that’s no surprise, though they are late…lat _er_. If Carlton had been glancing at the clock all day, or at the time on his stubbornly quiet cell phone, he would have noticed that though the pair of wannabe detectives usually came in around one, when Spencer finally woke up and when Guster had finished the rounds of his day job, they were in today well after three. If he had been. Carlton coughs and shoves his cell phone to the edge of his desk.

Guster will be in a suit, so he would have gone to work. But Carlton has no idea when Spencer had woken up today. He had slipped from his rushed shower to dress in the living room, where he had been embarrassed to realize that the radio had been left on all night. Though he probably shouldn’t have bothered dressing outside the bedroom, the sound of Carlton tripping over the shoes left in his hallway should have woken the dead; Spencer hadn’t even stirred.

By the time Carlton had finally slicked his hair down and gone back into the bedroom for one finally look at Spencer, Spencer had managed to roll over onto his back and drool a little onto a pillow without showing any signs of waking.

He hadn’t been sure if he’d been supposed to wake up Spencer for some cheesy, cuddly morning after like in the movies, or leave him some kind of note. In any case, there hadn’t been time for any of that crap, and no way is Carlton leaving written documentation of any of this until he’s sure of what the hell is going on.

It isn’t like Spencer couldn’t have called him in the hours afterward. Not even one of his silly texts with some kind of clue as to what Carlton is supposed to do. Normal people did that after dates and sex, Carlton had had that point drilled into him by a few angry exes and one very pissed off wife. Things like calling. Or buying flowers.

Other than a goddamn pineapple wrapped in a big red bow, he doesn’t really see what he could buy that Spencer would even like.

Anyway, Spencer isn’t normal. Fake magic powers aside, the man had said as much himself, touching himself in the bathroom of _Thai Me Up, Thai Me Down_. If he had been awake, he would have indicated what he wanted, told Carlton to get lost, or said, “Fuck me” like the night before.

The new flush of heat through him isn’t something he can hide, if anyone can hide anything from Shawn Spencer. Carlton shifts again before the pair is in sight, rubbing at his neck, his skin so hot it nearly burns _his_ fingers.

He hadn’t expected that, especially not after a night of so many stops and starts, still isn’t sure he believes in it. It’s a strange series of images, Spencer, a grinding, writhing tease pushing up into him, Spencer on his knees and unable to look up, breathing too hard just to be removing Carlton’s socks.

Carlton knows rookie hesitation when he sees it. He knows Spencer was scared the same way he knows that it wasn’t the sex that had been scaring him.

Carlton doesn’t sweep quick, intense glances around like Spencer does, he misses details no matter how much he tries not to, but he had watched Spencer last night, watched him like he’s been watching him for months now. And for someone who demands to be the center of attention, Spencer certainly ducks from the spotlight whenever he can.

At the thought, Guster and Spencer walk beneath the last arch and into view.

It’s three-thirty, Carlton looks at the clock again, exactly as obsessive as Victoria always complains he is. His gaze meets O’Hara’s as he swings around. She’s all wide-eyed alarm for a moment before she evens out her expression. Then Carlton nods his approval and she ruins it with a grin.

When he actually realizes what Spencer and his friend are discussing, Carlton flicks his eyes over, losing his breath for a moment to see Spencer in the same green shirt he’d worn yesterday. Spencer isn’t looking at him, and Carlton brings his eyes down to the work in front of him and keeps them there.

“I’m telling you, Gus, I never want to hear about paraphernalia again.” That the ridiculous remark is meant to draw his attention is all the more reason not to respond. Carlton’s silent cell phone is resting on top of a witness statement he needs and he stuffs it into his pocket without raising his head.

He can still listen anyway, can grit his teeth at the sound of Spencer and Guster stopping in front of his partner, can tap his fingers restlessly when Spencer leans across her desk to wish her a warm good afternoon.

“Lassiface,” is tossed out at him a second later, not that Carlton looks up, or says anything beyond acknowledging their presence.

“Spencer. Guster.” He has criminals to catch. There’s a slight pause at his response, the kind of pause that normally has someone jumping in to fill the void of awkwardness. Carlton flips a few papers over, reads the backs, though he knows Sigerson’s jacket practically by heart now.

“It’s diphallia, Shawn,” Guster corrects a moment later, far too loud. “The heartache of diphallia.” Spencer doesn’t miss a beat.

“Gus, please, there are ladies and a sensitive, middle-aged detective present.” Despite that obvious provocation, Carlton keeps his head down.

“What’s diphallia?” O’Hara asks anyway. Carlton can hear the vague hush of Spencer’s whisper, tries not to picture those lips against his partner’s ear, and fails. Fortunately O’Hara’s horrified gasp saves him from the temptation of looking up.

“ _Two_ penises?” And just like that, for one moment, the attention of the entire station is on their two desks and all the busy work music comes to a sudden, horrifying halt.

With everyone looking, Carlton can spread one hand out on his desk and risk a quick glance up to take in the scene. There’s Spencer sitting on the edge of O’Hara’s desk as though he’s entitled to, staring hard down at the files laid out there while O’Hara is busy directing embarrassed apologies to the rest of the cops around her.

Guster is to one side, almost at her side and glaring at everyone in a manner that would almost be intimidating if it weren’t coming from Guster. He saves an especially fierce frown for Carlton and Carlton glares right back. He doesn’t care if Guster does know. He hasn’t done anything to earn that look. Spencer is the one ignoring him, the one who has been ignoring him all day.

He ought to be grateful. Carlton huffs and drops his gaze at the thought, needlessly shuffling papers. Carlton has dated a partner before, as Spencer damn well knows. And though Spencer isn’t exactly a partner, he _is_ employed at this station, and a man, and so Carlton ought to be happy that Spencer has even shown this much discretion.

If it is discretion, he can’t help adding just to himself, and lets out a small breath. If they were even dating. Spencer had called it dating, and even though Spencer had crawled into bed with a pizza box—and surprisingly, napkins—and true to his word, fed Carlton bits of hot pineapple in between bites of his own pizza, a part of him still isn’t sure what Spencer means by that. He’s not sure that Spencer knows what Spencer means by that.

“Don’t act like that isn’t a dream of yours, Gus, I saw that CD in your car. _The Divas Collection; the Best of Diana Ross, Judy Garland, Liza Minnelli, Cher, Etta James and More_ Really, Gus?”

Even Carlton’s eyebrows go up at that one.

“You know that was for you, Shawn!” The flustered, panicked answer probably has Spencer grinning. Carlton feels his mouth twitch, ever so slightly.

“Gus Gus Gus.” Spencer’s shaking his head, Carlton can just see the motion. “Then why are most of those songs already on your iPod?”

“Those were for my sister…” Guster starts to argue, and then with the wisdom gained from lifetime of knowing Shawn Spencer abruptly shuts up. It’s a skill Carlton almost envies. After all, it’s pointless to argue, and anyone who knows Shawn will know that the CD is most likely his after all.

“Gus thinks he’s funny,” Spencer confides to O’Hara a moment later, confirming that idea, and Carlton glances up again before he can think better of it. Despite Spencer on her desk, O’Hara is looking at Guster, who is giving her a _very_ wide smile.

“Shawn knows why he got that CD,” Guster asserts and even though his partner actually giggles at that and doesn’t seem upset by his attention, Carlton feels his eyebrows snap down into a frown. He’s not sure when _that_ had happened, but he’ll have to talk to Guster later; O’Hara just doesn’t understand everything about men and needs someone to look out for her. Without her knowing about it, of course, Carlton’s not stupid.

“Cute, isn’t it?” Shawn’s voice hits him from way too close. Carlton jerks upright, his mouth falling partly open to find the other man directly in front of his desk. “Gus is like the gayest gay man to not actually _be_ gay.” Shawn gives a little wistful sigh that has Carlton shifting again, his hands curling into fists when he knows he has no right to be upset, when Guster is over there flirting with his partner, and Shawn is right here, leaning into his desk and wearing a green shirt wrinkled from Carlton’s hands.

Just when Shawn had gone from O’Hara’s desk to his is like wondering just when Carlton started to think of him as Shawn instead of Spencer. He only knows that it’s inevitable in Shawn’s presence, and that he has to keep from saying it out loud or everyone will know the same way that Spencer—Shawn—always seems to know what it means. It ought to freak him out, but what’s the point of being scared when just hearing Carlton say ‘Shawn’ is enough to drive the other man crazy, crazy unlike anything Carlton feels when Spencer calls him any of his stupid nicknames.

In that shirt, Shawn’s eyes have gone green as well, bright even with the shadows of a sleepless night underneath them. If he’s shaved today there’s no sign, just the usual stubble. Carlton feels his gaze travelling down almost immediately, over Spencer’s mouth, to his neck and the hickey boldly displayed by the shirt’s unbuttoned collar.

His face has gone red three times in less than half an hour. People are going to notice everything at this rate. He can’t even blame that on Spencer since Spencer usually shows up in clothes that need to get ironed, unshaved, and artfully arranged to look like he’s spent the night out. There’s nothing unusual in his appearance unless you knew him, knew _them_ , and then suddenly his choice not to change his clothes or cover up that love bite is different, some kind of statement, clear as hell, but only to those he considers important.

He’d spent the night out, and he knows his friends will know he spent it with Carlton.

Carlton directs his eyes back up, his mouth going dry at Spencer’s small, soft grin. He knows that smile, had felt it against his skin.

His gaze sharpens, his breath coming faster, and Spencer darts out his tongue to lick at his lips.

“You look tired, Shawn.” The smug note is back in O’Hara’s voice, and Carlton knows Spencer has noticed it too. He’s starting to doubt, after watching Spencer take in his house last night, that there’s anything Spencer doesn’t notice.

But this close, this open for the moment, he can _see_ the change come over Spencer’s face.

He’s staring and knows he is, decides he couldn’t care less if they catch him, because in one moment Shawn is looking at him, smiling and relaxed, and in the next Spencer is grinning and loud, half-twisting away to strike a new pose. This one _appears_ relaxed, one hip against Carlton’s desk, his shoulders dropped in a careless shrug, but it’s as much an act as any of Spencer’s visions. He has seen Spencer truly at ease, and this isn’t it.

Body language says more than words in most interrogations, and there’s too much control in the action for it to not be deliberate. Carlton leans back, frowning.

“I’ve been working out,” Shawn declares easily, not quite a lie though the image of Spencer actually working out is ridiculous—something he obviously knows, from his grin as he says it. There isn’t even a hint of anything else on his face. Either Carlton _has_ gone nuts, or Shawn really does keep this much of himself hidden most of the time.

The flailing is an obvious distraction, by now Carlton expects it. _This_ is something else entirely. This much control, to shift like that at the drop of a hat, to _fake_ body language, that took a natural born liar…or someone with some serious personal issues.

That Henry Spencer instantly springs to mind shouldn’t be a surprise.

“Going to the playground isn’t working out, Shawn.” Guster points out, joining in the fun, or playing along, Carlton can’t tell, but Guster has to know the act for what it is. Carlton sits up, glaring harder. Guster just lifts an eyebrow and looks back to Shawn.

Now that he’s been recalled to the situation, Spencer isn’t so much as glancing at Carlton. He’s joking back and forth with total seriousness, his expression earnest even if his words aren’t.

“Then why do they call it a jungle _gym_?” He points out. “Honestly.”

Control, Carlton thinks again, and remembers last night, today, and the silken challenge to that he’s currently wearing around his neck. Spencer had offered it up for him, and he hadn’t been paying attention.

He is now.

And he wants to, he will be more than happy to tie Spencer up and strip every last bit of that control from him. He might even be trembling at the idea that Spencer wants to do the same to him.

Carlton’s hot again, not with embarrassment. He twitches his brows down into another frown, forces himself back into the conversation when he sees their eyes on him. He hasn’t spoken, he realizes. He hasn’t said more than two words in the past ten minutes.

Spencer is blank, waiting. O’Hara openly curious. It’s once again Guster who’s frowning, reserving judgment. Carlton clears his throat and gets to his feet.

Standing, not quite tall enough to look down at Spencer, everything seems almost like it should be.

“There a reason you’re here, Spencer? We have work to do.” The challenge sounds about right, and part of Carlton means it. He does have work to do, and it isn’t going to get done with Spencer and Company in here confusing him. But he can more than match anything Spencer can do, and arranges his face into a convincing scowl. A scowl that lasts until Shawn hops into a sitting position, claiming Carlton’s desk, saying clearly that he’s not going anywhere.

“Somebody sounds frustrated…” Shawn draws out the word, not remotely subtle or discreet; luckily, Carlton is incapable of blushing anymore. This time his glare is real, just like his quick look around for the Chief, who, thank God, isn’t there.

Shawn’s eyes are on his desk—and the open case file—when Carlton turns back and then he’s all wide-eyed innocence and jazz hands. Carlton sits abruptly back down and shoves the papers back into their folder.

“Tough case?” Spencer wonders and Carlton has only a second to get alarmed at the maniacal light in his eyes and then Spencer is flinging himself off the desk, spinning backwards and nearly falling over O’Hara’s.

“He must be having a vision!” Guster announces, practically reading from a script, and Carlton spares a moment to roll his eyes before training them back on Shawn. The idiot’s eyes are closed, but even with that he somehow manages to reach out and grab the single pen O’Hara left on her desk.

It drags him forward—or, if Carlton is being honest—Spencer acts as though the pen is dragging him forward, but ridiculous though it may be, Carlton knows he’s waiting for the pen to suddenly give him the answer he needs.

As though someone else’s hand is controlling it, the tip touches down on Spencer’s hand and then it’s a series of swirls and flourishes. Spencer’s eyes are still shut. Carlton looks up from the mad scribbles now decorating the top of his hand and part of his arm and wrist to Spencer’s face.

Instantly, Shawn shoves himself forward, his lips parting on a loud, wet gasp when he bumps back into Carlton’s desk. That he’s going to bruise is Carlton’s first thought, quickly followed by his second, much less innocent thought when Spencer rolls around to gasp again, knocking over stacks of mail and paperwork and everything else on Carlton’s desk just to bend himself backwards. Once he’s there, stretched out and vulnerable, he gasps once more, his upside-down mouth open, making a shocked, pleased sound that’s quickly followed by a contented, sated purr.

Carlton shuts his mouth—which fell open during gasp number one—and looks up to find that the eyes of the room are again on them, on Spencer’s little display.

He’d _really_ like to think that Spencer’s visions hadn’t always been so obviously sexual, but seeing how not even McNab seems startled or surprised to see Shawn Spencer bent over Carlton’s desk and panting heavily, Carlton seriously doubts it. The Chief is by the coffee machine now, but before Carlton can jump to his feet and explain, she raises an eyebrow and goes back to sipping her coffee, already walking back down toward Booking as though nothing unusual has happened.

Carlton’s mouth falls open again. He doesn’t close it.

“Ink…” Spencer is mumbling now, babbling. He throws the pen to the side with a pointed gesture and goes on, opening his eyes and looking startled to find himself where he is. “Ink ink ink. The spirits are drilling it into me, or driving it into me.” His eyes meet Carlton’s. Carlton’s pulse is pounding in his ears. “Like…a tattoo!”

Shawn is up and holding out his arm, squinting at what he’s drawn onto his own skin.

“Of course!” He squints again and waves his handiwork at O’Hara. She, like everyone else still paying attention to them, looks to Carlton for his reaction.

Very carefully, Carlton coughs and then leans back in his chair. He can barely hear over the sound of his heartbeat. “A tattoo, Spencer?” It’s a dumb thing to be asking, especially since Spencer has seen their cases files at least twice by now. Three times if Carlton includes Spencer staring at the mugshot on his wall last night.

“Didn’t your suspect have a tattoo?” Guster asks, right on cue, snapping Carlton from the vaguely troubling thought.

“A person’s choice of tattoo artist is very personal, like the tat itself.” Spencer remarks, still breathing hard from the exertion of his vision. He slides back into a leaning position against Carlton’s desk and plops his hand down amid the mess he’s just made.

Following blue ink swirls down the forearm, down to the wrist and then back around, Carlton can clearly see the swooping, linked hearts that Spencer had managed to draw with his eyes closed, the same way he can read the ‘Lassi’ right in the middle of them.

And no, he’s not going to look back up, or in any way acknowledge any warm, stormy feelings in his gut that he wishes were indigestion. Not at his desk at least, not at the station, no matter how used to Spencer’s dramatics everyone seems to be.

Shawn clearly isn’t surprised by that. He’d waved that painted hand at O’Hara, indicating that he knew that she knew—how Carlton isn’t going to guess. Probably the same way he’d known about Carlton and Hornstock, though something about that still feels off, far too serious for any of Spencer’s usual shenanigans, as real as the way Shawn says his name just before coming. _Carlton_ , helpless, almost angry.

“We could call local parlors, see if anyone around here does tattoos like…that…” O’Hara is musing out loud, instantly a believer. She rifles through her copies of the paperwork and pulls out that mugshot, propping it up for everyone to see.

That lizard draws attention, as always, and not for the first time, Carlton thinks it’s a reckless tattoo for a career criminal to have. So memorable that no one should miss it. But then Sherlock is usually a behind-the-scenes sort of mastermind.

“…Then we can pay them a visit, ask about repeat customers…” she’s going on.

“People with tattoos usually have more than one,” Guster volunteers, still being _super_ helpful. “It’s addictive…or so I hear.”

Guster really is being helpful. Carlton considers the man again, then moves his gaze on to Shawn, who’s watching the other two seriously, waiting for them to catch up now that’s he’s provided a clue. From the side, the bruise on his neck seems bigger, more obvious, memorable, if not as glaring as a lizard with two dicks.

Two. Carlton freezes, mentally replaying the past few minutes, feeling some of that helpless, angry feeling of his own slipping away. Diphallia, Guster had said. Which is quite a coincidence. Good thing one of the first things cops learn is not to believe in them.

Spencer had already seen that picture in Carlton’s house last night. Carlton has a feeling, once O’Hara makes those calls, that they _will_ find a parlor in town that does designs like that. He also has a feeling that Spencer and Guster have already been there today.

Well now he knows why they were late.

It’s overwhelming. Amazing. Maybe even astounding that Spencer—Shawn—had taken one look and made a leap like that. It’s even more astounding to think that not once last night had Shawn given even a hint that he might have the answer to finding that dirtbag.

Carlton sees his hands becoming fists but doesn’t care. He knows what would have happened if Spencer had told him last night. Sex or no sex, Shawn or no Shawn, Carlton would have run out of there at the first suggestions of a lead.

Or, sorry, a _psychic vision_. Carlton snorts, changes position. He arches one eyebrow when his move gets Spencer’s attention. At least, it _openly_ gets Spencer’s attention; he’s not even going to wonder anymore just how much quick, careful observation Spencer must do to keep up his act.

Shawn actually looks worried that Carlton is laughing to himself. He blinks, even pauses his never ending twitching to look at him sideways. That’s something, getting even that much from Shawn without having to catch him off guard.

If he ever has. It could only be that he’s seen this much because Spencer has let him, that Spencer has deliberately dropped some of that control to allow Carlton in, past his defenses. But something about that phrasing has Carlton uncomfortable, makes him think of Spencer as a child, sporting that accidental black eye.

Spencer as a child just makes him think of Henry again, and Carlton has to shake away the image for now, getting to his feet again when the picture of _Henry_ trying to teach _Shawn_ to fight won’t leave him. Shawn isn’t a fighter, not like that anyway, and Henry should have known better.

Understanding Shawn Spencer might be too much to take right now, possibly too much to take ever, and Carlton doesn’t even have all the evidence. It’s no wonder Shawn only has the one real friend. It’s a lot to handle.

Shawn springs away when he rises, his smile flickering before winking out. Carlton stares blankly in return, sweeping a look over to Guster. Shawn is bright, fake, when he looks back. Everything he had been when he’d first come to this station with his psychic crap. Everything he wasn’t anymore.

“The spirits say this is a very bad man.” There’s an odd worried tremor in Spencer’s voice, though his arms are flying out in big, drama queen waves that no longer work on Carlton; he’s already been completely wrapped around Spencer’s finger for months now, so much so that even Spencer himself had finally noticed.

At that Carlton snorts again. Actually, that seemed to be the one thing Spencer _hadn’t_ noticed. Not until the incidents with Hornstock, and though Carlton had thought it had only been some strange jealousy—the echo of that damn question, that _better than Hornstock?_ —can still keep him up nights—it’s somehow beyond that now.

Maybe it’s the inked hand; it’s possibly as permanent as Spencer will ever get.

“So does his rap sheet,” Carlton comments tiredly, stepping out from behind his desk. O’Hara has her eye on them, even while she’s tearing through a phone book. Her files are still all over her desk, something Spencer would have seen while he’d done his usual thing and distracted everyone.

Just one big distraction. It’s also possible that that’s all this really is between them. A con job with some benefits.

Carlton’s chest gets so tight that he can’t move, can’t breathe.

A moment later he’s forcibly pulling in air, forcing himself to think, to look at everything without letting Spencer wave his hands or pull him into any closets.

If Spencer had wanted access to any of their information, he would have had an easier time chasing after O’Hara. She already hands over their files as though Spencer is entitled to them. And he’s still a civilian; Carlton’s not letting him see anything without direct permission from the Chief. He doesn’t care how talented Spencer’s mouth is.

Carlton looks up, focuses on Shawn who is still watching him with his head to one side, concerned and amused all at once.

A second later he’s got Shawn pinned against the glass wall of the Chief’s office. The Chief, thankfully, is still somewhere else so she can’t see Carlton making a fool of himself. That he knows he’s being an idiot doesn’t seem to be stopping him; Carlton keeps his hands firmly on Spencer’s shoulders and ignores the startled gasps from the pair next to them.

Shawn struggles for a moment, looking honestly shocked. His hair is clean, shining. It smells like Carlton’s conditioner. Spencer’s been in his shower. It takes work to keep himself still at the knowledge, to maintain eye contact with so much heat in the air. Then Shawn’s chest moves up and down, fast, not frightened at all. That had happened last night too, something shifting to make Spencer no longer so afraid.

“And why should I believe you and your spirits?” Carlton asks him in a quiet voice, painfully low, because he knows what he’s really asking even if Spencer doesn’t.

“Man, I cannot believe he shared his pineapple with you,” Guster remarks somewhere to the side. Carlton ignores that too, and the significance, if any, to Spencer slipping the occasional slice of the fruit between his lips. His fingers clutch tighter at green fabric, fighting the need to pull Spencer even closer.

They are already too close as it is, his body following Spencer’s without thought, pressing them both to the glass in a way that Carlton lives for, that’s possibly dirtier than any vision Spencer’s ever had.

“Lass.” Spencer whispers the nickname against his ear. His tone says he’s about to say something obvious. His eyes meet Carlton’s before he gives a wide grin for the benefit of their audience. “I’m helping you catch the bad guy!” The fact that Spencer can recall their audience when Carlton can barely think of them at all and then only to tell them all to go to hell only reminds him _again_ of how in control Spencer really is. Always is.

Carlton works his jaw, narrows his eyes.

The heat that rises in Spencer’s face at that is something even he can’t fake. His hands come up, not that he’s fighting Carlton off. They just come up, rest on his chest. There they tap once at the straps of his holster, a reminder, and then Shawn’s smile lets Carlton breathe out, long and slow.

“There’s that look,” Shawn murmurs too low for anyone else to hear, then licks his lips. “…Five minutes,” he adds, almost to himself, not that Carlton even understands the first comment. Shawn’s expression is all speculation, exactly what it had been before dragging Carlton into that storage closet.

If that’s what “Five minutes” means, Spencer is wrong. It would take two minutes or less to get into Spencer’s pants. Spencer is, after all, the one jumping into bathrooms at every opportunity.

“Carlton?” O’Hara’s use of his name brings Carlton’s head up, just a fraction, gets his eyes off Spencer’s mouth. His ears are hot, which mean he’s flushed, again. He should be. He’s eyefucking Spencer against the wall of the Chief’s office. The clear glass wall of the Chief’s office.

This is…this is not the place. Carlton swallows, then yanks his hands from Shawn’s…from Spencer’s shirt. This is the station, he reminds himself. If he lets Spencer in here, he’s done, sunk for good and the lowliest purse snatcher downstairs is going to know it just by taking one look at his face.

His expressive face. The face that for whatever insane reason made Spencer lick at his jaw and laugh against his throat.

So the lowliest purse snatcher might already know. After all, Spencer is already here, practically in his arms whenever he gets the opportunity. Spencer is here, and apparently not about to go away unless Carlton screws this up. Which he probably will, Victoria had made that clear.

“I…” Carlton starts, aware that he’s still standing in Shawn’s space. He’s not speaking either. The inked hand is still on him. He wants to taste it in a way he knows that even Spencer will think is weird.

He twists the ring on his finger, knowing it’s just a matter of time before his devotion to duty and lack of romance sends Spencer running. Even a fake psychic has to see the disappointment coming. It’s a wonder he’s even still there.

He’s always been weird. A big joke. Even Spencer had thought so at first. But then Spencer had made it seem so easy, to just be weird together, as though he’s also been on the outside a few times. Carlton doesn’t think it would be easy at all, but like he’d thought before, Spencer is a rookie at all this. If he gets scared away, it’s better now than later.

Carlton takes a step back, spinning around to look at his desk, then O’Hara. He plasters a bright, fake smile on his face, and waves his hand at his partner.

“Why don’t you get on with it, O’Hara?” he snaps, turning away from the confusion on their faces, on _Shawn’s_ face. He makes a point of flipping through Sigerson’s file again, still not looking up. “Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, Spencer, I’m going to do some actual police work.” He drops the file in his drawer and locks it before looking up.

Shawn isn’t bothering to hide his curiosity now, or his small frown. He only lowers his hands when it’s clear that Carlton really is going to walk away.

“I looked through this scum bag’s early arrest reports and found a list of known associates and aliases.” They had found those days ago, determined them all to be dead ends. Carlton smirks anyway. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“What?” Guster is a mix of annoyed and disbelieving. O’Hara’s already on the phone, frowning delicately at him. Carlton only looks at Spencer with one eyebrow up.

He knows exactly how psychic Spencer is. It’s the rest that has his heart thumping hard against his ribs. He blinks, and Shawn’s head comes up, something running through his expression before he expertly hides it.

Carlton moves. He strides off down the other hall, turning a corner before hurrying to a set of emergency stairs. He takes those three at a time, easily, and ends up one floor down. On this side the basement level is all storage rooms and passageways leading to the range or toward the M.E.’s building.

Several rooms are just the old paper files, hardcopies, in case they’re ever needed. That the doors are all locked isn’t going to matter, so when he slips inside the door marked only with an “S”, Carlton relocks the door behind him, takes a look around without turning on the light. It’s like he remembers; untouched piles of dust on cardboard boxes full of files. Row after row of metal shelves where there aren’t file cabinets, all of it visible in the dim light from the narrow windows just at the corner where the ceiling meets the wall. The glass there is also frosted, and too dirty for anyone to see in or out anyway.

It’s a room without any possible witnesses, because Carlton now knows _exactly_ how psychic Shawn is.

All this stuff is on computer now, but Spencer doesn’t have access to that. Not even O’Hara would be that accommodating with her career on the line. But Carlton had told him there was information in the old files, and this is almost as good as fishing.

He ducks behind the door and to the side, somehow not at all surprised to hear the deliberately carrying sounds of Spencer and Guster arguing back and forth. There’s probably no one in the hall right now, but just the same, they are putting on a show. Or, at least, giving themselves the opportunity for a show, if one’s needed; Carlton has a feeling that even in private they argue like this.

“I am not a sidekick, Shawn.”

“Lookout, Gus, I said ‘lookout’ and there’s nothing wrong with being a sidekick.” It’s apparently Shawn’s turn to be patient. Carlton’s mouth twists.

“I’m not a lookout either, Shawn. In case you’ve forgotten, what you’re about to do is on the wrong side of legal.” That one makes Carlton twitch. There are some things it isn’t nice to have confirmed, and your suspe…damn psychi…new lov…sort of boyfriend admitting to criminal activities is one of them. How fortunate that Carlton can catch him _before_ the act.

“And you knowing about it and not turning me in makes you the Boy Wonder to my Dark Knight.” Spencer goes on as their shadows appear in front of the frosted glass of the door. A moment later there’s a soft scraping noise that means that someone, either Spencer or his supposedly more responsible friend is picking the lock. Which makes this a day where Carlton’s…almost boyfriend…breaks _two_ laws. Two that he knows of anyway.

“I am not Robin, Shawn!” The indignant cry is enough to bring attention to the empty hallway if they aren’t careful.

“Sssh!” Spencer immediately shushes his friend, and Carlton’s eyes narrow at the sudden click of the lock giving. One of them is clearly an experienced criminal. “Fine.” He gives in. “I’ll be the Green Hornet and you can be Bruce Lee.”

Carlton’s moving silently, trying not to think about _that_ image, stepping away as the door swings in.

“Yeah,” Guster agrees after a pause, and Carlton watched Shawn slip into the room, still facing his friend in the hall. “I _do_ have a high kick.”

“And Bruce Lee needs to keep an eye out for Lassiface,” Shawn finishes, dropping his voice, either to be convincing or simply because he’s remembering the felonies he’s working toward committing. He shuts the door just as softly and Carlton steps behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

The high, girlish scream—quickly muffled though it may be—is a more than a little satisfying.

Shawn shuts up the second he turns around to see who’s grabbing him, but Carlton slaps a hand over his mouth for a moment anyway. The sight is reminiscent of another moment when the two of them had been locked in a room together with others right outside. Shawn mumbles something against his palm, his name, his lips moving around one stunned breath and Carlton immediately removes his hand.

Shawn’s eyes are wide, alarmed, before he narrows them and manages to look suspiciously at Carlton. Carlton’s palm tingles.

“Shawn?” The whisper through the door doesn’t take Spencer’s eyes off him. Carlton recalls himself enough to glare pointedly, since he’s not the one breaking and entering. He does _not_ lick his lips. Spencer licks his.

“Spiders, Gus,” is all Spencer says, not hesitating to tell his best friend a lie. Carlton shuts his mouth, then pushes against Shawn’s shoulder, shoving the little liar backward. Shawn’s eyes go wide again, his mouth opening and already going a mile a minute.

“Lassi I was just coming to see you,” he tries, and Carlton pushes him back again, enjoying Shawn’s soft gasp when he runs into a cabinet. He steps to the side, ends up between two rows of shelves, just out of sight of the door.

There’s less light here, but Carlton’s sure Spencer can see his grin anyway. He follows him to the shelves.

“Nice try, Spencer.” He must be crazy, because he actually _is_ amused, though he can’t help saying more. “Should I list the laws you’re breaking right now?” He could, and that’s without pointing out the clear case of fraud. Proving them would be something else, but he can definitely list them.

He’s still got his hands on Shawn’s shoulders, but he’s not pushing anymore. Shawn’s head goes to one side while he catches his breath, while he thinks, because that silence means he’s plotting, or about to leap into a vision.

It’s a shame Carlton’s not in the mood. He yanks Spencer around with the ease of practice, shoving him against the shelf, putting a leg between both of his to slide his legs apart.

He doesn’t grab his hands to cuff them behind his back, doesn’t need to. Shawn expels a shocked breath, and then lifts them both, curling them around the shelf by his head. There’s a little hitch in his breathing and suddenly Carlton is also having trouble getting air.

Spencer’s not protesting. It takes him a second to recover from that realization. And by recover, he means leaning closer to press himself against Shawn’s body, inhaling the scent of his conditioner, the image of Spencer in his shower.

“How about, you were down here to snoop on the Sigerson case?” he suggests, his voice getting low. He sounds angry, even if he doesn’t feel angry, though once again, Shawn isn’t reacting with fear.

His hands give suddenly on the shelves, slide down an inch as though his palms are damp. There’s perspiration at his neck as well, a faint sheen beneath his ear, along his hairline. He turns his head and Carlton finds his lips in that carefully casual hair.

“And why…why would I need to do that?” Spencer wonders, breathing so hard Carlton can feel Shawn’s back rub against his chest. He shifts, trying to ease that, trying to remember a lot of things, like what he’d been about to say, and why he’d been about to say it.

Only the answer, that Shawn isn’t psychic, gets stuck in his throat. Carlton swallows dryly, next to Spencer’s ear, and Spencer turns again, into the sound. He’s somehow managed to put on some of the cologne he’d complained before was too strong. Carlton still disagrees.

He tries again, freezing before he can even form the words, accuse Spencer of fraud. It’s true, and they both know it. Saying it shouldn’t make a difference, but Shawn is breathing hard in his arms, practically daring Carlton to frisk him, to take everything, and just like that, Carlton knows that he’s not going to say it. Truth or Dare is a stupid game; truth is always the better option.

“Maybe,” he grunts at last, sliding around to whisper in Spencer’s other ear. “Maybe you just had to see me.” His face ought to be burning at that ridiculous sentence, but something in it must have surprised Shawn anyway. He twists to follow Carlton, dropping his hands and turning around to face him.

His voice was too rough for him to play it off as a joke, and Spencer’s observant, though not a psychic. He pauses—a bare second to notice everything and draw conclusions—and then he’s grinning without moving away from the shelf. There’s color in his cheeks.

“Lass…” He rolls his eyes, his whole attitude indicating that Carlton _should_ have frisked him. “Check my pocket.”

Carlton’s scowling in an instant, jerking Shawn forward and sliding a hand down to his pocket, fully expecting to find missing evidence. His hand skims over Shawn’s ribs, his stomach, and while he might be struck with fever at hearing the noises Shawn makes at that, he keeps on frowning until he pulls a familiar little bottle and two—yellow this time—condoms.

That Spencer always brings two is an interesting fact to think about later, he decides, faintly.

“Christ,” he says out loud, bringing his eyes back up. “Christ,” he swears again when he gets a good look at the blatantly hungry expression on Shawn’s face. He’s only ever seen him look that way at a certain kind of fruit, and though it makes Guster’s remark make a lot more sense, it’s still almost too much to process.

He steps closer before he can think better of it, breathing hard and wondering what’s on _his_ face that makes Spencer’s mouth fall open. He’s got his hands at Shawn’s sides in the next second, stroking up and down even though he’s shaking his head.

This isn’t why he came down here, except that he has a sinking feeling it is. And it’s not a good idea. For reasons he should list out loud, this is a bad idea. Reasons like this being the station, this being Shawn Spencer who’s probably loud in church, reasons like the fact that they did this last night, and even though he threatens, he knows he doesn’t really want to hurt Shawn, and, of course, the fact that they aren’t really alone.

But he could have Shawn in less than a minute, he argues with himself, staring hard down into the face of the man daring him to, who wants him to be the one lose control, to fuck right here in the station.

Carlton brings his head up, dragging his gaze from Shawn to look around. He can’t see the door, but Shawn reads his mind before he can mention it, sliding a hand down to his belt.

“You really have to trust in the power of Gus,” Shawn chides him, quietly, seriously for someone working a belt buckle free with one hand and taking the lubricant and condoms from Carlton and setting them behind him on a shelf with the other. There’s something else in his voice, but he’s too controlled to say it directly, his hands sure at Carlton’s zipper.

He hasn’t moved other than to turn around. His back is to one shelf, his legs spread. He gets the buckle undone and one button, then Carlton grabs his hands.

Stopped, Shawn jerks his head up. “Getting shy on me, Lass?” Carlton hates that smug tone and Shawn’s too smart not to know that. He changes his grip, adds more force though Shawn isn’t struggling, sees Shawn’s eyes widen, his breathing pick up again.

He’s often thought Spencer was driving him crazy on purpose. Now he knows.

Carlton pushes those hands back, holds them by the wrist against the dusty metal. They’re down low for now, but he could bring them up, twist Spencer around and hold him in that pose again, keep him that way.

He meets Shawn’s gaze and clenches his jaw at the speculation and heat there, as though Shawn is working out just how many more insults it would take to get Carlton to do just that. But if he looks down, he’ll see just how much Shawn wants him to, needs him to, something else he won’t admit directly.

“Don’t tell me you can’t,” Shawn adds another taunt, right on cue, and even knowing just how easily Spencer can play him, Carlton brings Shawn’s hands up next to his head. He pushes to hold them there, drawing himself even closer.

“There’s the look,” Shawn remarks softly, for the second time, looking far too pleased with himself. Deliberately pleased, Carlton reminds himself, and breathes out, taking his time.

Then he arches one eyebrow, breathes in. He lets the thought of the Shawn out there move him, pulling his head back just as Shawn angles his up, obviously expecting a kiss. Shawn’s displeased frown at that settles things. He can do it, what Spencer wants.

Carlton glances to the side, in the direction of the door, and Guster, their lookout, and the one man strong enough to put up with _this_ for over two decades. He straightens, inhaling clean, Spencer-free air, trying to control himself. One of them has to, and this time it’s not going to be Spencer.

At that somehow unsurprising realization, he looks back to Shawn and lets his mouth curve up.

Shawn’s jaw goes slack for a moment, his expression stunned before he can hide it, and that’s enough.

Carlton pulls one of Shawn’s hands up, holds it between them, peering at the scrawling hearts in the dim light, the unmistakable slashes of his nickname, written documentation right there for the world to see on the back of Shawn’s hand.

“I thought you’d like tha- _at_ ,” Shawn starts in his smart-ass tone, his voice jumping when Carlton darts out his tongue to taste the ink. It’s not what he’d imagined upstairs, but the shocked moment of silence from Shawn makes him do it again, lick metallic ink and salty skin. He looks up, then curls his tongue around two fingers, pulling them into his mouth.

The muffled banging a moment later is the sound of Shawn falling back against the shelf.


	2. Chapter 2

Shawn had seemed to enjoy his mouth before, Carlton muses, sucking away the bitter traces of ink. He wonders if a tattoo would have the same taste, doubts it, sucks harder anyway, not pretending that he’s doing anything but imagining sucking Spencer off. He’s not the liar here.

The liar gasps at that, reading his mind or just reproaching him for playing dirty. His eyes are still green, dark and wide, and for that Carlton draws back, biting once at the fingertips before lowering Spencer’s hand.

Shawn’s fingers immediately curl into his palm. Carlton takes that hand and slowly pushes it back to the shelf by Spencer’s head, not that Shawn is fighting him at all.

“Lass…Carl…” he pants, not finishing either word. Carlton licks at his lips, swallowing spit and ink, making himself smile even though he’s probably dying of some kind of ink poisoning. He can feel himself shifting, mirroring Shawn’s stance. He moves in, blocking even the small amount of light, and Shawn’s head comes up to watch him. Behind him are the…provisions…he’d seen fit to bring with him to the station, the bottle knocked onto his side.

“Getting quiet on me?” Carlton mocks, but his lips seek out Shawn’s ear, the stubble beneath it at his jaw. He can hear Shawn swallow, feel the small shudder rock through him when Carlton breathes out.

The clumsy, obvious wiggle a moment later is exactly like what Shawn had done last night to provoke him. Carlton tightens his grip, pushing forward again until he can feel just how aroused Shawn actually is. No amount of sarcasm can hide a hard on. He nearly looks down, nearly drops down like Spencer always does, because Spencer is already hard for him, stiff and straining against the fly of his jeans.

His hold slips for a moment, his mind red heat and thoughts of Shawn naked, sliding inside that ass. He lowers his head, rocking forward an inch and feeling his body respond. Shawn makes a tiny, weak noise, turning his head to make it again. He pushes back, but this time Carlton holds himself still.

He knows what Shawn would do, tease that he is. He’d push it. Carlton lifts his head, glaring into those green-for-today eyes when Shawn opens his mouth, tries to speak.

“By the Power of Greyskull, Lassi, just fuck me already.” It’s clear from the half-smile that he’s meant to take that as a joke. But, as Spencer has said, Carlton has an expressive face, and the image that sentence instantly conjures up is no doubt in his eyes. Shawn makes a sudden strangled sound in his throat, the kind of sound he’ll make when Carlton presses his face to that shelf and spreads his legs apart again.

For now he just considers, aware that they have barely done anything, barely moved at all, and he’s already on edge.

Carlton inches back, and for the first time feels Shawn test the hold on his wrists, a small push.

“Oh yeah, Lassi, do it!” Shawn yells, his voice shaking for all his bravado. If Carlton is supposed to be embarrassed into action, it’s not going to work. There’s a small scuffling sound in the distance, Guster making some frantic move, and then nothing.

Carlton arches an eyebrow pointedly, then bends his head to put his mouth over the hickey he’d marked Shawn with last night. Shawn jerks at the first hint of suction, the spot probably already sore, definitely hot against his tongue.

“Holy crap,” Shawn croaks. This one sounds more genuine. He flexes again, twisting his hips up in an attempt to get any sort of contact. Carlton moves his body back, shifts his mouth and sucks harder, making the hickey that much more obvious and unavoidable. His name will be smeared across Shawn’s hand, washed off in a matter of hours; this will be there for days, as long as it takes Spencer to recover his cool after what Carlton is about to do to him.

He steps back into Shawn’s space, tearing his mouth away from Shawn’s skin at Shawn’s relieved gasp, the squirming rub against him. Under his suit his body is humming, pricks of heat and need making him angle his head to bite another bruise into the other side of Shawn’s neck.

“Fuck,” Shawn swears, his dirty mouth always working, though his usual colorful curses seem to have disappeared. There’s sweat under Carlton’s palms, his hold on Shawn wet and slippery, and he’s not gone enough not to think that’s fitting.

Shawn pushes, always pushes, angling his hips to try to thrust against Carlton’s leg. His desperation makes Carlton’s gut tighten. He’s too hot to blush anymore, just pants into Shawn’s skin and enjoys the frustrated motions against him, the mumbled stream of complaints.

“Carlton…” the whine isn’t long in coming, not like Spencer will be, and even knowing that he’s making the kind of bad puns that Spencer would enjoy isn’t enough to stop him or change his mind.

Carlton breathes out, then says it while Spencer is shivering into him, pulling away just enough to watch his reaction.

“Shawn,” he whispers, and hangs on with everything he has when Shawn’s eyes immediately close. His body rolls up, and then he wets his lips and he can’t know that he’s being watched, or Carlton would never have seen that reaction.

The image of Spencer blindfolded is worse with this in front of him.

Shawn opens his eyes to frown, meeting his gaze instantly just to prove him wrong. His whole expression demands to know what Carlton is waiting for.

He _could_ gag him instead; no need for a lookout if Shawn’s overly dramatic moans of ecstasy are already muffled by Carlton’s tie.

The dark, violent thought is unexpected, but his dick likes it. Carlton holds still, lets Shawn feel that. Shawn’s hands twitch in response, and now Carlton knows what he wants, what will happen if he lets go.

Shawn’s eyes sweep up and down, that focused expression he hides so well fading into something vague and hungry when he catches Carlton’s smile. Carlton uses his thigh, shoving Spencer’s legs open that much more, then pushes himself between them so even if Spencer wants to, he can’t get away without a struggle.

Then he lets go of his hands.

“ _Jesus_.” It’s his turn to swear, forgetting himself for a moment at the fleeting hurt in Shawn’s face, the stunned, still way he holds himself. Being released is not what he wants, something Carlton had already known from the second he’d pressed Spencer face-first against that shelf and kicked his legs apart.

A moment later and the hurt is all gone, only need and a wicked grin on Shawn’s face as he moves them closer, running his free hands all over Carlton’s chest, undoing buttons with lightening speed.

Carlton grits his teeth, but the grunt slips out anyway. He shudders at the first hint of fingers on his bare skin, telling himself it can’t possibly ache to push himself away no matter how bruised he feels where Shawn’s hands are no longer touching him. They’re a heartbeat away from Shawn pouncing on him, taking over, and if nothing else, this is still _his_ station.

“No.” His voice is rough, but he uses one hand to shove Shawn back. His other hand isn’t steady, not that Shawn seems to care. He watches it go to the knot in Carlton’s tie with a fixed expression, looking like he might collapse right there, might fall down and beg for it.

He might. Would. Has. The heavy thoughts are tangled together with the sight of Shawn’s wet, parted lips and the need throbbing through him.

The tie slides free with a slick, hushed sound. Carlton grabs one of the hands currently groping him and loops one end around it, over the wrist and under the other end. He pulls it without looking, holding their startled, serious eye contact, then takes Spencer’s other hand. He has a feeling that he’s managed to shock his so-called psychic, because there isn’t even one fake wriggle as Carlton binds his hands together and leaves a long strip of blue hanging from his wrists.

That part Carlton holds onto, wraps his fingers around it. He pushes out a breath, hears Shawn’s breathing hitch once more, and then Shawn’s arms are around his head and his arms are being crushed against the shelf as they both fall into it.

Shawn’s mouth is fierce, his stubble burning at Carlton’s lips and cheeks, like Spencer can’t decide whether to kiss him or talk. He does both. “Sweet pineapple Lassi,” he growls, yanking Carlton close, letting Carlton hold them both up. That it doesn’t exactly make sense doesn’t seem to matter.

Carlton gets his hands on Shawn’s hips, gets his shirt up at his waist, grasping wildly for too many moments as Shawn writhes against him. It’s tight, painful, clothes between them, but even with his hands bound Shawn is all over him. Carlton grunts, shifts, thrusting against Spencer’s hips, getting wet cotton and almost nothing of Shawn.

Another noise escapes him, but he gets a hand down enough to work the zipper. He can’t yank down his pants, not when his fingers are curling into Shawn’s stomach, but there’s air, cool and shocking on his cock, then the hot chafe of denim.

Without giving a crap about the fly, Carlton shoves down on Spencer’s goddamn jeans, wanting just enough skin to rub against. Shawn is instantly a squirming mess in his arms, his voice rising to ridiculous levels again.

“LassiLassiLassi,” he chants for the station to hear, sliding his hands down from around Carlton’s neck, reaching for his cock even while tied up. The first touch is slick and perfect, awkward angle and all. Hot sparks and flashes of _yes, Shawn do it again_ in his brain. “Oh yeah,” Shawn agrees, making Carlton clench his jaw, because he hasn’t _said_ anything.

“Come on, Lass,” Spencer goes on, as greedy and demanding as ever, as arrogant, too aware of how much Carlton wants him.

Carlton feels the line form between his eyes, shudders hard before he grabs a handful of silk and uses it to force Shawn’s hands away. From his hard, leaking dick. It’s the last thing he wants. And not for anyone else would he have put up with the bone-deep ache that takes hold of him.

He shivers, all over, hungry, almost closing his eyes at the way Shawn sighs against him, tries to bring his hands back.

“No,” he says again, fighting for air, and feels every tremble in Shawn’s body as he stops, holds himself still. There’s a line between his eyes too when he lifts his head, but his hips shift minutely as he studies Carlton. Thinks, plots, because there’s only one thing silence from Spencer can mean.

Carlton twists the tie and forces Shawn’s back and up, above his head this time. His arm is already straining, but like this all of Shawn is flush against him and Shawn is the one on fire.

The rookie from last night is totally gone; Carlton’s the one momentarily lost. He knows what he wants, how this game is supposed to go but he still has to make sure.

“You want this, Spencer?” His voice is high, strained, and he’s fully expecting to hear some long, condescending speech about Spencer’s dick or how easily Spencer could escape if he wanted to. But he needs to know, shivering at holding back for so long, acutely aware of every inch of stinging skin, how close he is to Shawn.

Somehow this is going to hurt, should hurt, and maybe in his flighty, idiotic, crazy brain Spencer hasn’t figured it out yet, just what this means, but so Carlton has to tell him, give him his rights.

Spencer just whines at him. If he can call it that. It’s honestly more a whimper, and right as Carlton thinks maybe it was a mistake, giving Shawn that much time to think, Shawn shifts again and Carlton feels his other hand dropping to pet over his stomach. It’s not calming. Shawn’s skin is hot, and his voice kicks up a few notches at the touch.

“Lassi,” he drags out the name, glaring when Carlton’s hand sweeps around his hip to his back. “Are you toying with me on _purpose_?” Disbelief makes his voice crack. Carlton pushes his fingertips into well-moisturized skin. Shawn wriggles a little, strong enough to make it obvious he’s not teasing, then his gaze goes up and down, directing with his just his eyebrows for Carlton to look at his erection and then maybe, to take care of it for him.

Carlton snorts, barely keeps his knees from bending.

“That’s rich, coming from you.” There’s sweat at Shawn’s back, Carlton traces it down his spine, keeping his gaze away so Shawn can’t read his face. His jeans are still an obstacle; he hasn’t even loosened one button at the fly. “You delight in teasing me.”

“Me?” Shawn snaps back, apparently going for innocent. When Carlton brings his hand around to get to that one button, Shawn yanks his hands downward, almost strong enough to get free. Carlton tightens his hold and slams them back where he wants them mostly on reflex, but stepping in to Spencer’s space, that’s deliberate. It feels so good he can feel it build in his chest before it slips out.

“Yes,” he growls, lets those sharp eyes sweep over him all they want. He pops the button, then lowers the zipper until the jeans give a little. Shawn freezes. Carlton looks up, lets their mouths come close to touching. Shawn licks his lips, proving his point. Even being right it’s hard to breathe, to not kiss him. “Isn’t that what you do?”

“Only a little.” There isn’t a smile at the admission, which makes it automatically suspect. Shawn licks his lips again, grinning this time when his tongue touches Carlton’s mouth, grinning when he doesn’t mean it. “Anyway, you’re one to talk, Lassipants,” he argues between quick gasps for air, “chasing me with that ring still on your finger.”

Carlton rears back, just an inch, feeling that fake smile and knowing Shawn probably meant him to. Then he refocuses, pulls his other hand off Shawn’s skin and smiling when Shawn makes a small noise of protest.

There’s a length of his tie he hasn’t used yet. Carlton ignores the wrinkles that would have had Victoria pissed and twists it around the corner support of one shelf. It’s not very binding. There are a few inches of slack, and the knot is loose, but he slides his hands down and smirks into Spencer’s face, enjoying the round eyes, the way Shawn swallows very, very carefully.

He takes a moment to take in the sight, to picture what it might look like with that same tie somewhere else, or tighter. Picturing Shawn on his bed like this. For a second he has to lower his hand, adjust himself. Shawn makes a strangled, wounded sound at that, lifts his head to meet Carlton’s gaze.

Shawn moves his arms, and Carlton lets him. With his eyes steady on Carlton, Shawn feels out just how much he can move and shivers when the silk shifts across his wrists. It gives him a few inches and nothing more, but he doesn’t say a single word, not one joke or quiet question about any damn lawyer or female con artists. He just splays his fingers out, a silent, helpless gesture, then curls them around the silk.

His shirt’s up, his pants open and shoved down. It’s not enough though, it’s not even close.

He takes both hands to touch Shawn, exploring his skin for the second time in twenty-four hours, his nearly naked body, not hesitating a moment to work the damn jeans out of his way, not needing to when Shawn instantly shimmies against him. Helping, or more likely, more driving him crazy.

The jeans and the shorts underneath fall somewhere around Spencer’s knees, after which Carlton stops giving a crap where they are. He takes his time, or at least, enough time to drive Spencer crazy right back, smiling at every jump of Spencer’s heart under his hands, each impatient twitch upwards. He doesn’t even bring his hands down to Shawn’s dick until the third or fourth time that Shawn says, “Lassi” and then it’s just to get Spencer’s voice back up where it belongs.

“Lassi!” The choked yell has to be heard in the hallway, and for a moment Carlton swears he hears something even louder, almost a song. He gathers pre-ejaculate in his palm, then slowly works Spencer’s dick. Not like he’d done in either bathroom, this time he’s gentle, light, perfect for making Spencer squirm like bait on a hook. He drags his fingers along the throbbing vein, brings them down to touch his balls.

“Lass,” Spencer tries again, a dry rasp against his cheek when Carlton leans in. Carlton lets their mouths come close to touching, then licks his lips. His own throat feels just as raw, tight with words held back, and he burns to be this slow with Shawn so close.

“What was that?” he manages to get out, not quite swallowing his gasp at how Shawn leans into him, stretching on his toes, how easily Shawn changes his answer.

“Carlton.” He gives in like there was never a discussion about anything else. Carlton’s other hand slips on his skin, his fingers squeezing over Shawn’s hipbone. He must have pushed, even if he can’t remember it, because suddenly Spencer’s back is to the shelf, and Carlton is flush against him, fitted tight between his legs.

This matters to Spencer. The thought is ringing in his ears like distant singing, makes his vision swirl like one too many Scotches. This matters to Shawn, possibly as much as it matters to Carlton.

He can feel a warm flush of guilt, the press of the ring still on his finger, but he lifts his head to devour Spencer’s smartass mouth, the push of his tongue an echo of the need driving him forward. He’s hot between Shawn’s thighs, rocking against damp, shivery skin, sliding his mouth down over his stupidly unshaven jaw so he can hear Shawn beg.

Shawn’s gasping, sucking in surprised, aroused lungfuls by the time Carlton gets his hands down to his ass, hailing him closer in a tangled, feverish crush. Sounds are escaping, not quite words, not much more than babbling, not that Carlton is laughing. He takes about half a second to get his pants down and then he’s got his hand around their dicks, the space between them is sweaty, raging hot, but not slick enough for what he wants. What he needs. Which is Shawn Spencer, five minutes ago.

“Lass,” Shawn tries, out of breath and uneven, jerking his head back, and even seeing the bottle out of the corner of his eye isn’t enough to stop Carlton’s answering growl. He pulls his hands away, following Shawn in as Shawn scrambles back against the shelf, pulling himself up by his fingers. His jeans are stuck somewhere by his feet, but he strains up again, getting his legs apart enough for Carlton to thrust between them.

Shawn’s shaking with the effort, but there’s nothing he more can do. With his hands tied, he can only feel what Carlton wants him to, the pressure of the shelf and Carlton’s body, not enough for his own release, but enough for Carlton’s if he wants.

For a moment he grips hard at Shawn’s hips, holding Shawn still, rubbing against him. Then he moves his mouth to Spencer’s throat, his fingers to the curve of his ass.

“Carlton, do it,” the plea rumbles against his lips. Shawn’s bare skin sticks to him, slides against him when Shawn pulls up again, bringing them together before Shawn has to let go.

It’s painful, needing Spencer so much, needing him like this, in his arms. Without fucking he could come. It’s so good his chest is tight and he can’t stop himself from reaching back between them, rewarding Shawn with a slow touch to his cock, liking how it jumps for him, pulsing with everything Spencer wants and refuses to say directly.

He sucks Shawn’s flesh into his mouth at the renewed chanting of his nickname, his _name_ , as though it’s all Shawn can remember now. He’s making more bruises, more hickeys, more for Shawn to show everyone—the Chief, O’Hara, Guster, even Henry—that this matters after all. It _must_ matter, for Shawn to react like this. If it doesn’t…

“Are you toying with me now, Shawn?” The question is sudden, dragged from him without his consent, and though he freezes, Shawn only continues to rock against him, his mouth letting out nothing but _pineapple_ s and _oh yes yes Lassi please_ s.

Carlton pulls back, a fraction of an inch from swollen, gleaming lips that instantly form a grin. He looks up, so close he’s almost cross-eyed, and sees Shawn Spencer, red-faced and smiling and not quite focused on him.

“And risk you…this?” His voice is thick, his recovery fast, but Carlton catches the mistake. He swallows, his breath easing out. Then he can’t control his mouth turning up into the same smile he’d felt the night on it before, staring at a shocked Shawn Spencer. “You’re my little Lassi sex machine,” Spencer goes on, too out of breath to sound light or hide his emphasis on one small word.

“Spencer…Shawn…” His heart is pounding enough to kill him; Shawn’s the same against his chest. Shawn’s gaze flies everywhere for a moment, as if he still wants to run, and Carlton’s sudden, seizing panic at the thought of Shawn leaving must be broadcasted on his face.

But he can’t look away, and Shawn can’t leave. He had hinted…dared… _asked_ Carlton to tie him up. Was still daring…asking…telling Carlton the truth now with every ridiculous statement.

“Besides, you can hammer a six-inch spike through a board with your penis and a guy’s got to have his standards.” Shawn finally meets his stare, apparently completely serious.

Carlton could shake his head, could ask, but he doesn’t. His thumb twitches, brushing the head of Shawn’s cock, seeing stars at the stunned, struck expression Shawn doesn’t hide from him. He breathes, slowly in and out, and then squeezes Shawn’s dick, works it slowly in and out the circle of his fingers. Shawn falls back then shoves himself forward, needy and hot at the caress, at what it will mean when Carlton fucks him again, and Carlton feels his smile return. He keeps smiling, because he can’t stop, because when Shawn speaks, their mouths brush together, and he doesn’t care if it’s deliberate.

“Shawn…” he says at last, licking across that full lower lip, feels Shawn’s body jerk to attention beneath him. He groans and doesn’t care who hears. “…Against the wall.”

He moves before there’s more than a flash of comprehension in dazed, darkened eyes, stepping back enough to force Shawn around, his face to dusty boxes, his hands suddenly bound even tighter as the silk twists on itself.

“Crap,” Shawn swears, making Carlton worry; he’s a weirdo, a freak for wanting this, he’s hurt Shawn for real. Then Shawn is obviously bracing himself, turning his head as much as he can, as dirty-mouthed and serious as Carlton ever got on a case. “Fuck, Lassi. Now. _Please_.”

Carlton immediately splays his hands over the exposed small of Shawn’s back, gritting his teeth at the need to do more. Then he shrugs and steps forward anyway, pushing himself between the firm muscles of Spencer’s ass, just for a minute, holding himself there with clutching fingers, so close to coming he sees white for a moment.

Shawn jerks forward, then back. Carlton catches a mumble about him cheating again, and not even understanding, he scowls, swings his hand. It lands flat on one side of Shawn’s ass.

For a long moment, neither of them so much as breathes. Carlton can feel the hit echo through his palm, his fingers, knows that it was his left hand, that the ring Shawn hates probably left a mark on his skin.

He wets his mouth, not sure of what to say, what apology would be good enough, and then Shawn is twisting, rubbing himself shamelessly against whatever’s in front of him, metal, boxes, he doesn’t seem to care.

“Superfreak,” Shawn manages one word, then more, his voice rich, humming. “And I can be _so_ naughty.”

Another dare. Carlton’s responding before he can stop himself.

He yanks Shawn back against him by his hips, drags a hand through the stupid, casual hair that’s soft with his conditioner. He pulls enough to get Spencer’s attention, to expose that throat, and then he can’t help moving his mouth over stubble, under one ear.

“You going to say it again, Spencer?”

“You going to smack my ass again?” Shawn actually sounds hopeful, dangerous, when Carlton’s palm is still tingling. The whip crack of the second slap is startling, the sound alone a bolt of heat right to his dick. It’s instantly warm under his hand, and Carlton imagines seeing Victoria while wearing this ring, knowing where it’s been.

He grins fiercely where Shawn can’t see, runs a touch over the spot, lets Shawn feel it.

“I don’t want to risk you,” Shawn repeats in short, startled fragments, shivering into him. It’s not what Carlton had been asking him to say, not at all, but he slides his hand around, touching Shawn’s stomach, working his fingers through the trail of hair leading to his cock.

Shawn sighs, his chest moving against him, tense muscles instantly relaxing. He ought to be worried, nervous, at what he’s admitted, at how Carlton has him trapped and tied up. He’d _spanked_ him for Pete’s sake.

And Spencer had wriggled and groaned and loved it. Carlton had loved it too and Shawn knows it. It would be difficult to miss, even _without_ seeing Carlton’s expressive features or feeling the way Carlton is breathing hard into his ear.

Maybe Shawn _can_ read minds, or just Carlton’s. Maybe that’s just fine.

“You know what’s coming, Psychic?” Carlton growls, his teeth against Shawn’s earlobe. Shawn shakes, shuddering against his chest, grinding his ass into his cock. Carlton runs a thumb along the shaft, under the head. Shawn’s motions get momentarily weaker, the tie and Carlton the only things keeping him on his feet.

Carlton likes that too, does it again to have Shawn weak and needy for him.

“ _Bananas in Pajamas_ I hope it’s me.” Spencer turns, offering one sly, coy glance that beats anything Carlton had seen on the floor of any bathroom. He talks like his chest is constricted, like Carlton is killing him.

It’s a battle to tear his hands away, a fight to do anything with Shawn spread-eagled against a wall and asking for it.

His chest is burning, his hands trembling. He curls them into fists once they’re empty, then swallows air and jerks back into clumsy motion.

Carlton grabs the bottle, changes his mind. He rips the condom packet open with his teeth, his skin on fire as he gets it on, _fumbles_ it on. Shawn can’t see, but he knows, not that he’s laughing either. The sound is more like moaning.

“Carlton.” His breathing hitches, his voice rising when he sees Carlton finally grab the bottle. The lid tumbles open too easily, exploding pineapple-flavored lube down Spencer’s lower back, his ass.

“I’ll…joke about you…spilling your load…later,” Shawn promises, ducking his head, then lifting it back up when Carlton runs fingers through the mess and glances a touch down the crack of his ass.

Instantly Shawn’s back is straight, his arms yanking down on Carlton’s tie. Carlton’s eyes follow the flex of muscle back up, going wide to see Shawn’s fingers curled around metal and silk.

“Lassi, don’t tease me.” He’s loud, demanding, and Carlton leans in, his mouth open at the back of Shawn’s neck as he works a finger inside, finds Shawn still somewhat loose.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Carlton gets out, but he’s already sliding in another finger, gritting his teeth because Shawn feels amazing and his cock remembers.

“Too late,” his psychic tells him, gasping when he’s not choking out his nickname, pushing back as though sensing Carlton’s frown. “Please, Lassi, hurt me some more,” he murmurs, absolutely insane. Trying to be funny, or to drive Carlton insane too.

“Too late,” Carlton grunts into Shawn’s skin, answering his own thought because Shawn already knows it, inhaling fake pineapple and sweat, his conditioner.

He hooks his fingers, strokes Spencer’s prostate just to make him whimper, make him make that angry, helpless sound in his throat. His liar, honest and begging for it.

He wonders if Spencer has sweated on his tie, if now the silk will never break, if he can keep Shawn like this forever. If his heart can take it if he does.

He slides his fingers out, adds another before stroking again. Shawn is beyond wriggling now, pulling the silk to drag himself up and down, fucking Carlton’s fingers when Carlton doesn’t move fast enough, and still it’s not enough. Not for either of them.

Carlton scoops more lubricant into his free hand, moves it slick and sweet to Shawn’s chest, his nipples and then down.

He grabs Shawn’s cock again, jacks it like he wants Shawn to come now, and come hard, growling and ready to hammer a six-inch spike through _concrete_ at the way Shawn is shaking, words streaming out like the fluid pulsing from his dick onto Carlton’s fingertips.

“ _Please_ , just… Oh yes. Yeah, Lassi come on, do it!”

Whoever’s listening outside can take that and shove it. Carlton shuts his eyes, shakes off the drama, the volume. He wants real. All of it.

“One more time,” Carlton orders harshly, panting, burning.

“Carlton,” Shawn says his name, psychic enough to give it to him, his voice rough, real. “Come on.”

He grips at the shelf when Carlton pulls his hands away, puts them lower. It has to hurt, the hold he has on the metal, but he only squirms when Carlton pauses to catch his breath, to control himself.

When he pushes in, Shawn is all whispers and then one sweet, long whine for more.

Carlton’s balls deep before Shawn shuts up, too dizzy to think about any kind of control. It’s Shawn who moves, eager and impatient, sliding forward, and then back, screwing Carlton for one heady moment before Carlton can press him back to the shelf.

He pushes, keep him there. He sucks once more at the back of his neck before he says it, says, “Shawn” and then starts to fuck Shawn while the shiver at his name is still working its way down Shawn’s body. He feels that shiver around his cock.

Shawn’s body is soft, moisturized skin and surprising muscles, small patches of hair. Carlton gropes it more with each thrust, feels ribs and hips, the collarbone, his stomach, then he hitches them closer and puts a hand to Shawn’s waiting cock. Shawn only moves his head back, arching a throat Carlton wishes he could bite.

He wonders if Shawn can feel his ring, hopes he can. He wants to know he made Shawn come with it on.

He grunts, moving faster, rough and not caring. Shawn wants it, likes it like he likes Carlton, for whatever lunatic reason. “Fuck,” Carlton swears seriously, digging his fingers into Shawn’s side, squeezing his dick until he’s whimpering. In his mind there’s just that name. “Shawn,” he says, shuts his eyes because he doesn’t know how loud he’s being. He really is going to have to hope Guster is handling this, because he still doesn’t care enough to stop.

It’s his station anyway. His station and his Spencer.

“Shawn,” he says again, losing himself in the crushing black heat around his cock, the sweet scents in his nose. The only music he can hear is the irregular moans from Shawn, sounds that aren’t even words, ragged and real. Shawn wants him, can’t hide it. Shawn wants him, and had wanted him to know how much.

He needs more ties, needs enough to keep Shawn in his bed for years.

His chest rumbles, and he’s knows he’s speaking, decides he doesn’t give a crap what he’s saying. Spencer can as good as read his mind anyway.

“Yeah,” Shawn answers immediately, bowing his head. His skin is damp, and somewhere, he has Carlton’s name—Spencer’s name for him—written on him.

Lassi. He can say it whenever he wants, surround it with little girly hearts, Carlton doesn’t care.

Carlton opens his mouth, panting harshly against the collar of the green shirt, scraping out words to try to say that against the bump of Shawn’s spine, up into the bruises he’s already left. He grunts, and at the lick of his tongue, the hint of teeth on his soft, soft skin, Shawn is arching back against him, saying his name, groaning, coming.

Carlton feels the dick in his hand stiffen and pounds harder into Spencer at the hot flood into his hand, the flexing muscles around his cock.

There’s too much heat, bolts of light down his spine, he jerks, pulling Shawn to him, and whatever he’s saying is making Shawn laugh, even as he’s twitching and gasping out breathlessly, ropes of come still spilling onto dusty shelves.

“Come on, Lass, believe in the power of Gus.” Whatever that means, Carlton slides a shaky hand to Shawn’s ass, grips him harder, growling fiercely when Shawn lets him.

“Mine, Spencer,” he grinds out, fully inside Shawn’s sweet body. “You’re _my_ psychic,” he pushes the words through his teeth, hot all over when Shawn stops. “Got it?” His hold is too much, punishing when Shawn doesn’t deserve it this time, but at the little hitch in Shawn’s breathing, he stutters, struggles for air, thrusts into that black.

He sees stars. Little flashing stars that look kind of like fireworks. They spell out a name he’s not likely to forget, shift into little people with wings.

He snorts at the thought, realizes at the same time that his thinking is muddled because he must have come. Everything is warm, especially the damp, familiar body beneath his. He shivers, lingering stars still in front of his eyes. The little people are hammering. With their penises. Which makes his insanity official.

“Spencer?” he wonders when he get his mouth to work. His bones are heavy, his skin alive. His fingers are rubbing gently into Spencer’s back and sides, swirling small circles, blind hearts.

“Shawn,” Shawn corrects him—breathing hard, Carlton is happy to hear. He opens one eye, grunts.

“Shawn,” he agrees, then starts into awkward motion, moving the second he sees that he’s leaning against Shawn, who he left bound and tied to a shelf. Standing up leaves him with a twinge in his back, pulling out makes him flinch, but that’s nothing compared to how uncomfortable Shawn must be.

It’s almost a relief to find he can still blush, but his face is definitely hot as he rolls the condom off and does his best to tie it. His hands are slippery and he smells like he took a bath in pineapple Schnapps. He wipes them on the sides of his shirt where his jacket will hide the stains, then reaches up, looking back at Shawn at the same time, blinking to find Shawn facing him, his tie dangling from only one wrist, neither end still looped around the shelf.

“How did you…?” he starts, then abruptly stops. Spencer does jazz hands at him and attempts to look mysterious. Carlton restrains himself, sweeping a quick look over the infuriating, tricky liar he might as well call his boyfriend, considering those hickeys. The rest of the station probably already is.

His stupid hair is still a mess, now so is the rest of him. His throat bitten and bruised, his stomach gleaming with lube and semen.

Carlton jerks his attention to that and Shawn calmly reaches over and into Carlton’s coat pocket, smoothly pulling out the handkerchief he _knows_ Carlton carries there. Then he cleans himself off without even a hint of embarrassment.

If anything, he looks smug, too intense for someone who lies for a living. He stares directly into Carlton’s face as he finishes and pulls down his shirt, hums along to the music at the same time. He stares like he’d just gotten a suspect to admit what he’d “known” all along, stares like he has something he wants to ask anyway.

He puts a hand up to scratch his nose, and Carlton sees the smeared remnants of his name, which, along with those hickeys, are really going to make it obvious to anyone with eyes that Spencer was just fucked, and by whom.

Carlton reaches up to tug at the tie that isn’t around his neck anymore.

Shawn grins and holds up his hand, displaying the wrinkled blue silk of his expensive gift from his wife. He almost can’t believe what he did with it, except that he can. Carlton swallows as it all comes back to him, a flashing series of snapshots, video, dirty, dirty porn, making Shawn beg, tying him up, spanking him, and he should be wondering what had come over him, but he knows.

“Actually, I came all over myself, mostly.” Spencer is still smug, still not-psychic but somehow all-knowing. Carlton snatches his tie out of reflex and then gentles his touch, pulling a finger though the loose knots and sliding it off Shawn.

He grunts when it’s in his hand, then looks back to check for red marks on Shawn’s wrists. There are a few, none dark enough to be bruises. Not that it matters, he supposes, not with “hurt me some more” still in the air between them, almost as high and ringing as Guster’s voice outside the door.

Carlton blinks, then angles a look sideways, toward the sound of what has to be a medley from _Diva Classics_ coming from outside in the hall, as sung by Burton Guster, pharmaceutical rep and assistant fake psychic. For a moment, Carlton is convinced he really is suffering from ink poisoning. That Guster is singing to cover the sounds they were making still doesn’t explain why he was singing _that_ , or why he knows all the words.

Carlton listens for a moment, then lets out a startled breath when Shawn steps into his space, pushing them both back against the other shelf behind Carlton. He’s got his hands in Carlton’s hair the next second, always in his hair, though this time he’s smoothing it down. He still can’t breathe evenly.

Carlton grunts again, warm at the contact, and catches part of a grin.

“So _why_ did you get that CD?” he wonders, clearing his throat at his husky voice. It’s a little strange to hear a man singing Judy Garland, but Guster’s voice actually isn’t bad, and when he pauses for a moment, Carlton would swear that he hears applause.

“ _Dude_.” The tone says it should be obvious, and maybe it is. It _is_ Judy Garland. But Shawn drops his hands without stepping away and moves onto to something else. “Lassi,” he begins, and the nickname is anything but annoying.

Carlton works his jaw anyway, for his pride, and receives a pat on his shoulder for his trouble. He tries to tell himself it isn’t pity for being so slow; after all, Shawn had just poured his soul out while letting Carlton fuck him. He’s also not exactly steady on his feet.

But it feels like pity. Carlton frowns, and Shawn leans back in to almost press their mouths together. It must be his favorite thing to do, after jumping into Carlton’s lap. Carlton just puts an arm around Shawn’s waist, keeping him upright.

“Did you just trick me into sneaking into the records room so you could have your wicked way with me?” Shawn asks him, evidently serious. Carlton tries to look into his eyes, but they’re too close.

“Hardly a trick with what you had in your pocket.” He snorts, not quite answering the question and knowing Shawn will notice. Since the man immediately pulls slightly away, he must have.

Then he grins, so wide and bright it could light the room. Carlton can already feel his ears getting hot.

“Lassi,” Shawn tells him in a creepy accent that Carlton feels like he’s supposed to recognize. His guard goes up, a long-standing Spencer habit, but Shawn continues looking self-satisfied—and not moving. “People will say we’re in love.”

Going still isn’t exactly the best reaction. Carlton unfreezes himself enough to lick at his lips and lift his chin. Whatever it is, a joke, something more serious, it’s too late to pretend he doesn’t feel anything.

When Spencer’s grin only gets bigger, Carlton pokes a finger into his chest, right into the even-more-wrinkled-now green alligator shirt and knocking Spencer off balance. Once he sees the fleeting hurt and surprise, Carlton can’t help himself; he’s got Shawn against the shelf and staring back at him.

“You think I do this with anyone?” he counters and kisses all the smartass right out of that mouth. Hard, open-mouthed, forceful, all the things he has to be to get Shawn’s attention, catch him off guard. Shawn straightens and kisses him back with a small moan of approval, his hands in Carlton’s hair, undoing all the work he just did to get it flat.

“Not anymore,” Shawn drags his mouth away to deliver that line, as serious as before, a lingering worry behind his eyes. Then he ducks his head to hide it and works his lips over Carlton’s skin, sucking lightly at his throat where the collar has come undone, where there should have been a tie. He’s mumbling. “But I’d know if you did.”

Despite everything, despite knowing it’s a distraction so Carlton won’t see how worried Spencer really is, Carlton lets out a small groan, has to force himself away. Guster is still singing, because they are still at the station. They are at the station, he reminds himself, and this is bad enough without trying for a second round.

He looks down, because he can’t look at Shawn without wanting more. That’s weird, he thinks instantly, twisting his ring then ripping his hand away. It’s obsessive to want someone this much, and Spencer is going to think he’s a freak just like Victoria had if he can’t control himself.

Carlton bends down, grabbing the fallen tie in one hand and then shoving it in a pocket before grabbing Spencer’s jeans and lifting them up. It’s not like Spencer should be doing any bending anytime soon, he tells himself, still avoiding meeting those changing eyes.

While Shawn is zipping up his fly, Carlton grabs his pants and stands up. The jangle of his belt is too loud. He twitches at the noise, but buckles it and tucks in his shirt. When he straightens, he can see one condom and an empty bottle of lube on one shelf.

He grabs them quickly and shoves those in his pocket with his tie. Shawn sticks the dirty handkerchief in his jeans pocket, out of sight. Even with that, he looks recently fucked. Even without the wrinkles and the bruises, he looks it. He’s grinning again. That might be the reason. Even blushing, Carlton feels his lips quirk up smugly.

“Seemed like a good idea considering that look you’re always giving me,” Shawn remarks out of absolutely nowhere, but he has to clear his throat too.

Carlton narrows his eyes, attempts to backtrack to figure out what the hell Shawn is on about, then gives up, focuses on what he needs to know now. “What look?”

Shawn breathes out, and hums along with Guster. Carlton shifts to glare at him, crossing his arms.

“That one,” Shawn bounces, shivers, “all private violence and public sex. _Super_ freak.”

“No!” Carlton snaps before his mind can linger on the last part, as though it’s _his_ fault that Shawn is constantly dragging him into closets and bathrooms and tents. “No more public sex, Spencer. Especially not in the station, not again.”

There’s a scowl and an opened mouth.

“Ever,” Carlton adds, fully aware that he’d started this encounter, aware that Spencer is just as aware. But the psychic’s mouth shuts, and then he scrunches his nose. His expression returns to speculation.

“What about foreplay?” he argues and when Carlton closes his eyes and groans, he keeps going, killing Carlton with every word. “Teasing? Light touching? What about kissing? Tongues?” Like Shawn can’t get enough either, can’t even shut up about it.

Weirdo. Carlton thinks, maintaining his scowl with effort. Excepting his first major collar, it’s possible he’s never been so happy. Not even with Victoria.

At the thought, he feels a hand in his coat, looks down in time to see Shawn steal the tie and slip it into his own pocket. Carlton lifts his eyebrows, but knows he’s not going to ask why, or why Spencer picks pockets. It might give him a heart attack, and he has to work for the rest of the day, pursue justice, catch a very bad man. Not fantasize about what his boyfriend does with his ties when he’s not around.

“I have to get back to work,” he says, to say something, and Shawn’s expression doesn’t change. It’s a mix of hopeful waiting and insanely pleased knowledge. An odd medley only made worse by the fact that Shawn is quiet.

Shawn Spencer isn’t meant to be quiet. It’s unnerving.

“He’s very dangerous,” Carlton goes on, too loudly. “It’s very important.” He buttons his collar and then immediately unbuttons it when it feels too tight.

“Not to get fifth grade on you, Lassifoo, but… _duh_.” Shawn waves a hand dismissively, but still doesn’t move. “Gus and I have work to do too.”

Carlton waits, but doesn’t hear anything following that about mani-pedis or cartoons or sushi. And Shawn _still_ isn’t moving or hopping off into more crazy shenanigans. Whatever he is standing there expecting to hear, he’s not going to get it.

“I’m not joking,” Carlton insists, pops another button and tries not to fidget when Shawn’s attention momentarily drops to the amount of chest he knows he’s revealing now. “He’s smart and dangerous and I need you to…”

He hesitates when Shawn grins, then he decides to try again, wondering just when _everyone_ had stopped being intimidated by him. Next thing McNab will want to _talk_ more with him too.

“You and Guster stay here while O’Hara and I track him down.” He has a feeling, no, he _knows_ Spencer will follow him anyway, but he has to issue the warning.

“Or else what?” Shawn lifts one eyebrow to match his smile, then reaches out to arrange Carlton’s shirt to his liking. Carlton looks down, sees his chest hair on display and slaps Shawn’s hands away. Great. Now his face will be red when he leaves.

A second later he can feel an answering smile on his face and frowns to quash it while he rebuttons his shirt.

“Is that an order?”

“Shawn…” Carlton doesn’t make the mistake of leaning in to growl it, but it’s tempting. “You stay where it’s safe,” he actually gives an order, hears himself, what he’s admitted. His ears are starting to burn now. Shawn’s insanely pleased smile gets even wider.

“I will if you will, Lassi.” His answer is practically a whisper, serious enough for Carlton to worry again. He stares, looks suspicious while he tries to figure out what that had meant, then finally moves. He has a job to do, Spencer doesn’t. And as smart as Shawn is, confronting the bad guys just isn’t it. He should stay put.

“But we owe it to Samantha,” Shawn offers earnestly and his psychic crap is getting annoying. Carlton is about to snap back at him to keep his idiot butt safe when his memory clicks back on Samantha Sigerson, naughty schoolgirl stripper.

Carlton knows he fails to keep his embarrassment off his face and just clears his throat.

“I have to leave first,” Carlton rolls his shoulders, changes the subject. From the sound of things, Miss Ross definitely has an audience out there and Carlton’s the one with a legitimate reason to be in this room. Shawn just nods, smiling innocently.

Carlton glares some more at that, unease and a history of Shawn getting into trouble making him pause. But Shawn gives every indication of patience, so Carlton takes a few cautious steps toward the door.

He can just make out Guster’s silhouette; it looks like he’s dancing. Huh. He might actually believe that no one outside would have paid the slightest attention to what might have happened in this room.

Carlton stops to take a last look at himself, half turns to look back and feels the sudden pressure of Shawn behind him, his heat in front of him when he turns the rest of the way.

A hand rests on his shoulder, another lands gently on his chest where his tie should have been. Shawn is still unsteady on his feet, well-fucked and wrung out from orgasm. Carlton’s hands come up to hold him automatically, close around him to keep him steady

Shawn falls almost drunkenly against him, his breath warm on his face. The air around him smells sweet and sexy at once, and Carlton’s pretty sure he’s never going to be able to think about pineapples the same again.

His wide, green-for-today eyes are watching him, staring into his face and Carlton thinks, again, that Shawn is waiting for something.

He looks him over as much as he can, up and down, making sure he’s alright, disregarding the messy clothes, knowing Shawn wants them that way, that that part of him is for public display.

What isn’t, what he sees because Shawn wants him to, is the need keeping him glued to Carlton’s chest. Carlton frowns and whatever’s on his face now makes Shawn give a tiny shake and push against him more.

Carlton moves a hand up to his shoulder, sees his wedding ring and then drops it, knowing that Shawn saw it. He bites back words, also knowing that he’s saying the wrong ones, like always.

“If he starts singing _I’m Coming Out_ , do I need to worry?” He jerks his head in Guster’s direction, tries a smile a moment later to show it’s a joke, his chest tight. Shawn’s expression goes startled and then abruptly blank. Then he tosses his head.

“I think you’re the one we need to worry about.” Shawn arches both eyebrows up, not quite insinuating anything, and making Carlton into some sort of…slut…at the same time, when Spencer had started all of this, approaching some kid lawyer when Carlton had obviously wanted him.

He opens his mouth, pokes Shawn in the shoulder, ring or not.

“I didn’t cheat on my wife, Spencer, why would I cheat on you?” he huffs, shuts his mouth so suddenly at the way Shawn goes smug that his jaw actually hurts for a moment.

As though that’s all he needed, Shawn lets out a breath and mutters something under his breath that Carlton can’t really hear. Something about Henry always being right in the end.

He steps back at the end of it, eyeing Carlton up and down like letting go is the last thing he wants to do. If Carlton weren’t used to feeling confused around Shawn, he’d be irritated. He’s still irritated, but he can deal with it.

“See you tonight, Lassi,” Spencer promises him, the fabric of Carlton’s shirt catching on his fingers as he releases him.

He’s in the shadows when Carlton opens the door, so possibly he doesn’t see the group of five people standing around and clapping as Guster does what’s really a very good impression of Diana Ross.

The man stumbles for a moment at seeing Carlton, and Carlton stares back at him for one breathless moment. Then Guster nods shortly and turns back to his audience, bowing at the end of his song.

Carlton blinks, resists the urge to put a hand to his warm face. The audience ignores him anyway, complimenting Guster as they start to disperse. A moment later and they’re all gone.

“Nice singing, Guster,” Carlton remarks calmly as he closes the door and heads quickly toward the stairs. It’s his way of saying ‘thank you’ that he doesn’t comment on how well Guster imitates a gay icon.

He stops in the stairwell after turning the corner, hearing the familiar back and forth patter of Spencer and Guster, reunited. It’s nearly as soothing as the music of work upstairs, something he can also hear distantly.

He puts his hands to his face, waiting for his flush to fade, feels the pressure of the gold ring on his cheek. He freezes, brings his hand down only to twist at the ring on his finger, thinks of Shawn’s fingers, covered in smeared ink. A moment later the ring is off, his skin tingling where it used to be. It doesn’t hurt, it isn’t going to bruise, but people will still see, still wonder.

Carlton stares at it then shoves it into his coat pocket.

Without any audience, without _possibly_ knowing Carlton is still around or what he’s done, Shawn abruptly bursts into a vaguely familiar song, Guster joining him a startled moment later. It’s some kind of duet about promiscuity, with Shawn of course singing the girl’s part. They sound horrible together, something that is probably mostly due to Shawn. Carlton shudders, and then flinches when he hears his name.

“See you tonight, Lassi,” Shawn says again, though more than likely they will see each other again at a tattoo parlor before then. He calls it out for the world to hear and then resumes singing his terrible song, _you know what I want, and I got what you need_ and _I’m all yours, what you waitin’ for_.

If he hadn’t already been wrapped around Spencer’s finger, he still would have said it’s a sound he could get used to hearing everyday. Which is weird, not that he cares.

With that, Carlton starts back upstairs, tapping his hand on his leg to the beat. It’s a little too loud, but it blends in with the sounds of the station like it’s meant to, echoes like a heart pounding against his chest.

 

The End


End file.
